


orange flavoured sweets

by culticmyexecution



Category: NCT (Band), SM Rookies
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culticmyexecution/pseuds/culticmyexecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If any of the two were asked how everything had started, Ten would glance thoughtfully at some spot on the ceiling, his smile somewhat askew, and Johnny would scratch his temple, shrugging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	orange flavoured sweets

There are the moments they both cherish; when a chance appears, they jump headfirst into spending split seconds together, melting in each other, and disappearing from this universe.  
  
At first, just after the other guys turn away,  
   their hands move to the sides and meet, palm to palm,  
   fingers, locking, form a sophisticated ornament,  
   and _the warmth_ crawls from the hands, through the veins, further, to the hearts, upon which it bestows the quivering and the painless skips of heartbeats; to the brains that it surrounds with cordial fog and calmness.

Then, cameras are off, lights down, there has already formed a crowd in the dressing room — the dark hall is empty, and there’s quite enough room for cuddling.  
Hands enfold the shoulders covered with tiny beads of sweat, the breathing is caught reluctantly.

To nuzzle the fiery angle between the neck and the shoulder, laughing for a reason they both can’t quite get;  
   to embrace the waist and _just freeze_ ;  
   movements and words carry no meaning;  
   to drown in the sounds of breathing, in the warmth of each other, it is enough to be, instead of a stifling corridor of a concert hall,  
   somewhere else, where there’s no one but them.

If any of the two were asked how everything had started, Ten would glance thoughtfully at some spot on the ceiling, his smile somewhat askew, and Johnny would scratch his temple, shrugging.  
It had started not as if without them realizing — but on its own in a way.  
Grazes, initially completely accidental, transformed into subconscious, and the entire situation for the two of them became so essential that all that was left to do was to smile and continue.  
Subconscious was accepted and turned into intentional and openly desired.  
  
To take the hand discreetly;  
   when alone, hug so tightly as if they wanted to merge, to have a connection grown between the tiniest two bones of theirs so that it would become needless and impossible to part—such wish flashed in their thoughts when they had to break an embrace and go on, keeping saying,  
   again, _we’ve palled up_.

An adequate explanation of the mutual geniality blossoming they couldn’t—and didn’t want to—find, and both didn’t seem to mind:  
    why superfluously look for a causal relationship,  
    if the cause doesn’t matter,  
    if the only thing that does is the fact that when one wants to express _“I feel amazing with you around”_ there’s no need in words,  
    if it is both a mean and an end to graze the wrist with the fingers;  
    if there is a set of words warming in the chest tied up into a ball that makes the lungs shudder: hyung strokes his hair, and there is a sound as if a bottom of a wine glass’ bowl was lightly hit by a crystal wand.  
    _I think I’m in love._

_”Think”_ splits into sounds, into letters;  
    melts and disappears, when by an absurd accident Ten catches his foot on a staircase, and Johnny makes a weird sound and hooks his hand even though the younger doesn’t seem to be falling, and pulls closer, his shuddering chest snuggling Ten’s spine, his hand around Ten’s shoulders.  
  
Twelve deafening ticks of Johnny’s watch later, Ten doesn’t rush to move; he relaxes his strained vertebra and tilts back slightly, as if it is vital for him to have a few millimetres more of contact, as if it is the meaning of his life to rest his head on Johnny’s shoulder and, turning his waist and twisting his neck, to raise on tiptoes and light-headedly touch hyung’s lips with his.

That can’t be called a kiss: he’s too twisted, there’s too little contact, there’s even less perception of the actions;  
    it’s an impulsive smear, like a brush smears a sheet during an art lesson, only instead of paint it leaves a scalding sensation of air.

Two more seconds pass, and Ten finally musters enough strength to overcome that _itch_ on his lips that craves for air around to disappear, craves not for a chill but for a heat:  
    _kiss him._

It would be insane to turn around and follow the desire—he might have been below average at school but he was certainly not insane—  
or so he told himself as he shifted his weight to one foot and turned around, his hand catching the railing, the other foot stepping on a stair higher so that he could lift himself.

_It would apparently be funny,_  
he thinks as Johnny catches him during his move and kisses, being, nevertheless, the first,  
   _if he rejected._

Hyung’s hand somewhere on Ten’s spine, holding his denim shirt and screaming,  
    _I will not allow you to pull away,_  
    _don’t pull away,_  
_please._

Ten lets his hair grab Johnny’s hair gently, pulling him down,  
    so that he for certain wouldn't fall;  
    so that he wouldn't need to balance on one foot,  
    so that he would be even closer.

_This is so stupid,_  
Ten wants to exclaim as they go down the staircase, after breaking a kiss and blinking uncomprehendingly at each other. Johnny says nothing, and when Ten steals a glance at him before leaving the dorm, he sees  
    Johnny touching his own lips with the tips of his fingers,  
    and smiling,  
    and returning a glance,  
    and Ten can’t register the moment his lips utter,  
    _“Hyung, kiss me once again.”_  
However, the moment when Johnny touches his chin, imploring to raise his head,  
    when his palm unfolds and covers Ten’s cheek,  
    and fingers put a hair strand behind the ear,  
    and he's _so close,_  
    that long moment Ten outlives as he outlived the long minutes of awaiting the casting results.  
When the lips, as if drawn in pastel, touch his forehead, Ten wants to laugh,  
    _of course._  
When they kiss his right cheek, then the left, he smiles,  
    _it is still so stupid._  
When they cover Ten's lips that for some reason carry a nervously trembling smile, he wants to scream,  
    _what the hell._

To the list that includes touches that others thought to be just awkwardness and clumsiness,  
    laughing in each other’s neck at another silly joke,  
    embraces when there is an opportunity of any kind,  
    constant sitting together,  
    holding hands for made up reasons that Taeyong called less rational than the reptilians theory,  
    there are added kisses when no one sees, always risky, always a second before being caught, laughing shrilly afterwards.

    With the taste of Johnny’s orange flavoured sweets,  
    with the taste of someone’s salty toffees Ten steals from a shared drawer,  
    with the grey shade of secrecy,  
    with the odour of a fabric conditioner, when they have a minute to relax in the bed of one of the two, and to just lie and listen to music, and to kiss cautiously,  
    with _“Johnny i have a question”_ as the ending theme,  
    as if it were all a series or a reality show,  
    but everything is far more prosaic,  
    but it's always more entertaining to think that it's not.


End file.
